


Alone and Not Alone

by Redangel228



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fantasizing, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redangel228/pseuds/Redangel228
Summary: It was here again, that itch, that inescapable irritation.  Where did it come from?  Every few months, just when he had marshalled control of himself, it would niggle away making him tetchy and restless.  However long he fought, the relief only came from submitting to it even though that was accompanied with a deeper dissatisfaction of himself and his weakness.
Relationships: Adam/The Captain (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Alone and Not Alone

The Captain stood at the window, staring out sightlessly at the moonlit garden. He was fidgety and distracted, a state he disliked; it was unbecoming in an officer. But it paled in comparison to his dislike of his other thoughts. It was here again, that itch, that inescapable irritation. Where did it come from? Every few months, just when he had marshalled control of himself, it would niggle away making him tetchy and restless. However long he fought, the relief only came from submitting to it even though that was accompanied with a deeper dissatisfaction of himself and his weakness. On every previous occasion he had sought methods of distraction and cure but none had worked. This time he had concentrated on physical pursuits in an attempt to divert his body’s attention elsewhere, more runs, more stretches, more pacing the perimeter of the estate. But deep down he knew it was futile. It wasn’t as if he could exhaust his body these days, even if that might have worked when he was alive.

He turned away from the window and confronted his bed. He had spent very little time laying down recently, too twitchy to rest, too nervous of his own thoughts, too aware that it would facilitate everything he was fighting. But, by God, he was tired. Battling his own mind was exhausting. Perhaps sleep would arrive quickly and he would have a few hours’ respite.

The Captain strode across the room to the bed. He sat bolt upright on the edge, swagger stick horizontally in both hands. With a harrumph he twisted to bring his feet on to the bed and laid back stiffly, staring at the ceiling. ‘Come on, sleep,’ he urged internally ‘I’m all yours.’ But sleep was far away, abandoning him to his fate.

The swagger stick rested across the tops of his thighs and he knew. He knew that such a small, insignificant thing would be the beginning of the inevitable end. A slight pressure where no pressure was usually felt. And a response. Subtle at first, an awareness of more sensitivity, as if it were taking up more space. The Captain closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose in the same way he would if one of his men had disappointed him, which in a way was true. He lay the drill stick at his side. He had lost the battle. 

As if in acknowledgement that it had won, his body began slowly to react. He felt himself stiffen within his uniform, aware of the material tightening as he grew harder. He put his hand to it and palmed it through the thick wool. His breathing was slower now that the fight was over, although it shook slightly with anticipation. He rubbed his hand more firmly over the now obvious bulge and swallowed at the ripple of pleasure that it sent through him. There was no turning back now.

The Captain reached for the fastenings of his uniform trousers, slipping the buttons of the fly loose one at a time, quite slowly. He pushed his hand into his underpants and pulled his cock free, trying to nudge the clothing out of the way at the same time. It felt warm and firm in his palm, ready, as if it had been waiting for his attention for some time. He stroked it a couple of times then pushed his clothing down to his thighs, out of the way.

Bringing his hand back to his cock, he began to stroke himself with a leisurely rhythm. Now he was here there was no need to rush. He felt tingles begin in his limbs, his body enjoying the caress. He let his mind wander. Since Alison and Mike’s arrival the house had been filled with visitors, more people had been through its doors than in decades. And the Captain had filed away images of many of them. Tradesmen, surveyors, wedding guests, he’d amassed a mental photo album of handsome young men to be appreciated in these rare moments. He thought of the builder he and Julian had tricked, those beautiful, muscular arms in his tight t-shirt, how they flexed as he worked. His breathing became less steady as his pace increased a little and he flicked his thumb over the slit knowing it would be wet with precum, slicking his head as he stroked.

Who else? The party guest, in his hungover nakedness, pert buttocks flexing as he left the room to locate his clothes. The Captain had seen few naked men in the last 80 years, that one had been a welcome sight. As had the bare chest of that insufferable but attractive actor. Yes, that was good, that was working. The Captain’s grip tightened as he remembered the soft fuzz sprinkled across the actor’s chest and the way his britches clung to the contours of his thighs.

And Adam. The Captain’s breath hitched as he remembered the young assistant director, beautiful, strong, masterfully in control of his troops. Those arms, that smile, the soft brogue of his accent. He was the Captain’s idea of heaven. The Captain would happily have worshipped him the best way he knew how, on his knees. He began to stroke himself in earnest as he imagined Adam standing in front of him, jeans at half mast, stiff, thick cock right in front of the Captain’s face. 

He’d start slowly, winding his tongue around the head, teasing gently into the contours of the slit, tasting the first drop of wetness. Then taking the head in his mouth, softening his lips as they slid over the velvety skin, waiting to hear a groan of appreciation and feeling his own cock tingle in reciprocation. He would place his hands on Adam’s hips and lean into him to let his hardness slide as far down his throat as he could before finding a rhythm that suited them both. Adam would weave his fingers into the Captain’s immaculate hair, messing it up in the only way the Captain enjoyed. He’d tip his head back in pleasure, using the Captain for his own needs. And the Captain would thrill to the sensation of submissive power, being made to yield to such a position, debasing him the way he deserved and yet ultimately in command, controlling Adam’s pleasure with his actions. The Captain’s body was keeping pace with his image of Adam, both of them approaching their climax, feeling it build as the pace increased. He closed his eyes and arched his back, imagining Adam’s hands pulling unthinkingly at his hair as he reached the point of no return, the Captain’s hand a blur. They came simultaneously, Adam shooting his thick load into the Captain’s waiting, wanting mouth as he felt his own cock throb and the hot wetness cover his hand, getting drawn into the last few strokes as he exhausted the sensation.

He lay back, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his brow. He had dirtied his tunic and his hand was sticky, but at least that would sort itself out very shortly, one had to be grateful for small things in his position. He knew the haze of hormones would burn off quickly and he would once again be disgusted at his own desires, but he tried to hang on to the feeling of satisfaction for as long as possible. He lay silently in the dark until the traces of his exertion had disappeared, then righted his uniform. He closed his eyes and drifted, for the first time in days, into blissful, untortured sleep.


End file.
